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Saturday, February 2, 2013

I am left-handed. Years ago I looked up the word sinister, from the French sinistre or LEFT-HANDED! That's right, the definition of left-handed comes from the French for evil. That did not do much to make me feel good.

In public schools, left-handers all had to deal with modern desks created for right-handed students. And we were taught to bat rightie, golf rightie and play tennis rightie. Wasn't being leftie ever going to be good?

I am in good company because lots of famous people are left-handed. Here are a few:

Monday, January 28, 2013

Welcome! Thanks for visiting today. This story is be part of a Christmas 2013 book called,FINDING LOVE IN SANTA'S THRIFT SHOP:

She knew that being in the same
small town with Will Benson wasn’t going to be easy. He had moved on but had
she? The mask of anger his face became when she was around made her sad. His
cold rejection of even polite conversation with her hurt deeply. Where’s the Will I knew and loved?

His obvious dislike of her hardened her resolve
to sell the little house she had bought and go back to New York City.

Gotta change the sign while it's still light out.She dragged the heavy wooden sign, Santa's Thrift Shop, outside then the step ladder.
There were two big hooks on the building and two heavy duty loops on the sign. She tried
to lift it and felt a pull. Shit! Her hand instinctively went to rub her back.The sound of a car door slamming caught her
attention.

“Gimme that,” Will said, grabbing the sign.

“I can do it.”

“No you can’t.” He shoved her away gently. The
touch of his gloved hand on her arm made her tingle. I haven’t moved on. She bumped up against him for a moment and his
arm went around her waist to steady her. For a second she closed her eyes and
imagined this was a real embrace. A smile stole across
her face.

When she opened her eyes, Will stood staring at
her,the angry mask melted away.A small smile played at the corners of his
mouth. She recognized the man who had once loved her. Neither spoke or moved.

Nervously, Giselle ran her tongue over her bottom lip drawing his gaze to her mouth. A hungry look flashed in his eyes, but
was quickly replaced by the return of the angry mask. He dropped his hand as if she were on
fire.

“People are counting on this,” he mumbled as he
lifted the sign easily then stepped up on the ladder. She moved toward the
ladder, but backed away when he barked, “I don’t need your help.”

Will hooked the sign on the proper hooks and came
down the ladder.

“Thank you,” she said, awkwardly offering her
hand.

“I didn’t do it for you. Did it for the kids.” Ignoring
her hand, he turned and was off before she could answer.

Pain welled up in her
chest. Tears stung her eyes until they blinded her. There was no place to run,
no strong shoulder to lean on or lap to hide in. With her back up against the door, she
slid down to the floor, her head in her hands and sobbed.

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